


cold creatures

by neverloseyourpride



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Accidental Plot, Angst, Anime, Consensual Sex, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Ice Skating, Long Distance Pining, Meet-Cute, Reader-Insert, Self-Insert, Smut, Sports Scandal, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-15 01:17:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9212987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverloseyourpride/pseuds/neverloseyourpride
Summary: He’s athletic and lean, chest caught in a steady rise and fall as his breathing returns to normal. The exercise has brought colour into his cheeks, droplets of melted snow caught on long eyelashes. There is no denying it, he’s beautiful.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is entirely self-indulgent but I wanted to share because darling Yuri Plisetsky deserves all the love in the world. Set some time after Yuri!!! on Ice.

> “THERE IS A WILDER SOLITUDE IN WINTER   
> WHEN EVERY SENSE IS PRICKED ALIVE AND KEEN…  
> [I] FEEL THE SILENCE GATHER LIKE A STORM.”
> 
> - MAY SARTON, FROM “THE HOUSE IN WINTER,” IN  _A PRIVATE MYTHOLOGY_

Someone had once said something about not visiting Russia during winter. Perhaps it was due to the bitter temperatures, the sort that seemed to sink icy teeth into your skin and burrow deep into your bones. Maybe it was because of the snow, settling so stubbornly on the ground that every time the idea of going outside sparked inside your head, it was swiftly extinguished by the thought of having to wear an ungodly number of layers. Or maybe, just maybe, despite all your complaining, it was because you would end up falling in love with the cold.

The hotel room is quiet; a sense of peaceful tranquillity mixed with a near maddening sense of being trapped has fallen upon it. You sigh, a steaming mug of warm cocoa clasped in your palms, lounging lazily upon the fresh white sheets of your bed. The smell of chocolate and the unmistakable scent of hotel - clean, part chemical, part fibrous - leave you feeling content, caught in a daydream as a flurry of flakes dance past the window. Your gaze follows one snowflake in particular, watching it twirl on its spiralling descent downwards. Without intention, you find your line of sight drawn to a figure in the adjacent park below. Alone, they seem to glide through the white with ethereal grace. A glint of light from below their feet draws attention to the skates they wear, the scene piecing together slowly as if watching whilst half asleep.

Time drifts by without note as you watch the ice skater carve shapes across the ice-covered pond and before you know it, your cocoa has grown cold. With a furrow of your brow and an unspoken pep-talk to inspire determination, you pull on a coat and boots and hat and gloves, disregarding your scarf for the sake of not looking overly tourist-like and incapable of coping with the native weather.

Your breath mists as soon as you step outside, ignoring the shivering couple checking in at reception who advise staying indoors. Every step is punctuated with a crisp crunching sound as you cross the road, overly aware of how eerie cities seem when there is so little traffic. You pass through an ornate iron gateway, following a winding path through the park that leads you to the pond. The skater is still there, still spinning. They move with the grace of a ballerina, almost entirely one with the ice and snow.

There is far more intensity watching them so close-up, you soon realise. Each time the skate strikes the frozen pond, it creates a sharp sound that reverberates through the air. You stand still in silent appreciation, hands shoved into the depths of your pockets. It isn’t until the skater’s head turns piercingly in your direction that you realise you may have intruded. A darkly clad stranger observing without introduction or invitation may not have been quite what they wanted, and indeed you assume this to be the case as a few unknown words are shot in your direction.

You offer a tight-lipped smile, incapable of responding in their mother tongue so choosing to move on, barely taking a few short strides before the figure skater has cleared the distance of iced pond between you. “кто ты?” they ask, but your expression must provide them with an adequate answer, for they then pose the question again in English. “Who are you?”

“[Y/N],” you reply, studying the skater from beneath the knitted edge of your hat. Now that you can see them properly, you realise it’s a young man. He’s athletic and lean, chest caught in a steady rise and fall as his breathing returns to normal. The exercise has brought colour into his cheeks, droplets of melted snow caught on long eyelashes. There is no denying it, he’s beautiful. 

Your observation is picked up on and his expression turns to a slight scowl, seemingly uncomfortable with the weight of your gaze. “Have you been sent here to **spy** on me? Are the others really that afraid of losing that they want to steal **my** ideas for their programs?”

You can only offer a look of bewilderment for a moment, partially confused at to what it is you’re being accused of. “ _Spy_? I only wanted to watch.”

His blue eyes narrow and it is now your turn to feel pinned down by another’s stare. “Rude,” he huffs, Russian accent hanging thickly from the single syllable. “How would you like it if I watched you do something without asking first?

You refrain from explaining that there are very few things that you can perform with equal skill to him skating. “I’m sorry.” Despite the genuine apology, a slight bite slips into your tone, far from pleased at being scolded by a stranger. “But if it’s privacy you want, perhaps a public park isn’t the _best_ location to practice in.”

He huffs out a humourless laugh at that, the sound turning to steam as it leaves his lips. “I’m here for the ice, _dúra._  If I can skate here on the pond, I can skate anywhere.” He performs a slow pirouette on the spot as if to prove his point. 

“ _Oh_ ,” you drawl mockingly. “Of course. And there was me thinking of ice as little more than a nuisance for the poor ducks.”  


The skater reacts to your teasing far more dramatically than you had anticipated, his frown deepening into something of a scowl. “Do you not know who I am?!” He promptly sits down upon the ice, lithe fingers unlacing his skates. 

You shake your head, all the while contemplating leaving before he joins you on solid ground. There’s a sharpness about him, mixed with a dangerous sense of self-righteousness, that has you simultaneously wanting to fight for level standing and to turn on your heel and run. Fight or flight; it was an unusual battle of instincts.

“I am Yuri. Yuri Plisetsky. The ice tiger.” He seems to magic a gym bag from thin air, shaking the thin layer of snow from it before pulling out a pair of near brand-new trainers. “Figure skater for Russia. Gold medal Olympian.” Your blank expression receives a roll of his eyes and a quiet tut. 

“Gold medal,” you echo thoughtfully, and it’s difficult to prevent the fact that you’re impressed from showing. “In that case, I’m surprised there aren’t more people watching you skate here.”  


Yuri shrugs indifferently to your observation. “It’s cold out. People have better things to be doing” He stands, gym bag slung over a shoulder and a hoodie now zipped up over his training outfit, stepping onto the snow-covered bank to join you on the path. “What about you - you’re clearly not from around here and have no notion of who I am. Why did you come and watch me?”

There’s a pause as you hold his gaze, chin raised. He isn’t overly tall, but that doesn’t stop there from being a whole heads height difference between you. “I was bored.” It’s not the answer he was looking for, you know. In your short amount of time as an acquaintance of Yuri Plisetsky, you could tell that he was the sort of person who needed to be reminded often of his skill and prowess. It wasn’t an ego thing - although you didn’t doubt that he did have one - but rather an insecurity, and one you knew all too well. “You caught my eye from my hotel room.” 

His demeanour shifts at that, an unreadable expression casting across delicate features as he pulls up his hood. “Cool,” he says nonchalantly, swiftly steering the conversation elsewhere. “Where are you staying? I’m at the Osobnyak Voennogo Ministra.”

It’s your turn for you to narrow your eyes suspiciously. “So am I. Room 2.” 

Yuri’s lips pull into a silently humoured smirk and he gives a small nod, beginning the short walk back to the hotel. “C’mon then. I’m getting cold.”

A heartbeat of hesitation passes and you fall into step beside him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "MOONLIT WINTER CLOUDS THE COLOR OF THE DESPERATION OF WOLVES.  
> PROOF  
> OF YOUR EXISTENCE? THERE IS NOTHING  
> BUT.”
> 
> -FRANZ WRIGHT, FROM “YEAR ONE,” WALKING TO MARTHA’S VINEYARD (KNOPF, 2003)

The walk back is a silent one, not a single sound leaving either of your lips as you return to the warmth of the hotel. A trail of melting snow is left in your wake, turning to glistening droplets of water upon marble floor. You cross the now empty lobby and follow Yuri up the stairs, eventually breaking the quiet when he slows to a halt outside of your room. “Are you expecting an invitation inside?” you query, far from inclined to offer him one, looking pointedly at his hand which is poised upon the door handle.

He merely smiles, a sly and knowing thing that cuts across his mouth. “No. It’s my turn to intrude without asking permission.”

“I didn’t--,” you begin to protest, but the attempt at defending your actions trails off as you realise he’s looking at you with a strangely tender expression - one you had not anticipated to receive from a stranger. But your pause seems to startle him and in the blink of an eye he schools his features into marble-like neutrality. 

“You said you were bored,” he challenges, moving aside as you pull the key from your pocket and let the persistent Russian in.

Soon, he has made himself at home in an armchair, long legs draped over one side. You pass a number of careful yet not entirely trusting looks in his direction, shedding the damp winter wear to replace with a significantly warmer cable knit sweater. Without asking, you throw a blanket in his direction and watch as he drapes it around his shoulders, humming approvingly as if unaccustomed to such subtle luxuries.

It’s almost strange, you realise, that a self-proclaimed Olympian (you had yet seen proof to back up this claim and therefore took it with a pinch of salt) should so willingly and so carelessly surrender to the company of someone he does not know. Sitting down crossed-legged upon the bed opposite him, you state as much. “I could be a serial killer.”

Yuri sets his cool blue gaze on you once more, contemplating for a moment. “As could I.”

This response causes a smile to tug at one corner of your mouth. “I could be a crazed stalker fan.”

“I could be an assassin.”  


“I could be a criminal on the run.”

“I like that one,” he says. “What crime did you commit?”  


“I stole the crown jewels,” you respond after a brief pause for thought, distinct amusement in your tone.  


“Cool.” Yuri flashes a grin; swift, yet it leaves its impression. “In that case, you can pay the bill for my room.”  


The two of you expel a laugh before settling back into a silence that is both borderline comfortable and not. After a moment of this, he speaks again. “What are you really?” It is a loaded question, weighted and heavy. He knows this but asks anyway. It falls from his tongue as such, slowly dropping into the space between you.

A response doesn’t come immediately, but he seems to appreciate this. You turn the words over in your head, piecing together a hundred different answers before selecting one that seems to fit. “Someone looking for the right direction to go in.” 

He shifts his position attentively. “A purpose?”

You nod, just once. “Yes, like that. I need to find something to do with my life.”

“And is that why you’re here in St Petersburg?”  


“I thought travelling might help,” you reason.  


“You’ll find it. The thing that fuels you.” 

He says this with such certainty that you know he truly means it. That he too has perhaps been burdened with a similar struggle but come out the other side valiant and triumphant. With a grateful hum, you find yourself unafraid to relax properly in his presence, stretching out to lay upon your chest, chin resting upon the edge of a palm and held up by your elbow. “So why are _you_  here? Can’t just be for the ice. I’m pretty sure you find that in most places this far north.”

Yuri lets out an unhappy groan, toying distractedly with one corner of the blanket. “My coach sent me here. He wants me to choose my own theme for my next skating program, thinks it will add some emotion to the performance.” He seems to pout slightly, a childish reaction that you find oddly endearing. “It’s not **my**  fault he insists on everything being full of sentiment.” 

“Well, it makes sense to me,” you respond. “Just choose something that you’re passionate about, like skating.”

He pulls a face. “I can hardly base an ice skating program on ice skating.”

You raise an eyebrow, mock unimpressed. “You _know_ that's not what I meant. There must be something else that you’re into. Something that will inspire you.”

“I don’t know. It needs to be artistic. Tell a story...” Yuri sits in quiet contemplation for a moment. “I like cats?”

It’s a dreadful suggestion and you can’t help but scoff. “I like cats too, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to try and win a sports competition by embodying them.”

“Forget it,” he mumbles, twisting his body in the chair so that your gazes can no longer meet. The blanket you gave him falls to the floor. “Without inspiration, I might as well not bother.”

It’s a strange situation, the one you consequently find yourself in. You remain perfectly still for a while, simply observing a boy who you do not truly know sulk quietly in a room which, until a short time ago, had been your place of private solitude. The two of you were both stuck, both seeking inspiration, both battling with a block of the mind and heart. 

You consider asking him to leave after a while, wonder if it’s better to part ways and find solutions to your problems alone. But then you catch him stealing a glance at you and all thoughts of abandoning him are scattered.

“I have an idea,” he announces quietly, limbs moving like liquid gold as he grabs what looks like an iPod from his gym bag and joins you upon the bed. The mattress shifts beneath you. He smells faintly of sweat, new clothes and expensive cologne, of hard work and vanity. At this proximity, looking him directly in the face is like staring straight at the sun, tempting but near blinding, so you keep your eyes cast on the iPod and the elegant curve of his fingers.  


An earbud is proffered in your direction and you accept it without question, pushing into one ear.

“I’ll play a song that I like to skate to and you tell me what it makes you think of, okay?”  


You nod, sitting up to give your full attention to the task. “Sure.”

The first song is vaguely recognisable, the sort you’d have listened to when silence was far from favourable. “Night time in the city,” you say, offering a one-shouldered shrug, uncertain if your thoughts on the song is even remotely what he’s looking for. 

Yuri doesn’t react, merely presses skip.

The next evokes significantly more imagination from you. “It feels like the cold. Of being invincible after shattering. A battle cry for victory and conquering your enemies.”

He makes a sound of approval but doesn’t linger on the song, nor does he question your explanation further. You realise that he isn’t judging your opinions, isn’t going to argue with your interpretations. 

You carry on like this for a few more songs until reaching one that makes your body tense, the melody filling your head, the lyrics crawling hot under your skin. "Dysfunctional relationships. Ripping apart. Wanting to be wanted. _Desire_."  The word is accompanied by a breath of warm air and you suddenly become hyper-aware of his presence. Of every inhale and exhale. Of the way you can feel him watching you with an intensity that makes you feel exposed, stripped down to bone and flesh.

“Desire,” Yuri echoes, a curious look set upon his angelic features. He licks his lips, perhaps unintentionally, and it’s as if the world has tilted on its axis.  


You’re not sure which of you leans in. It happens without thought and with reckless abandon. Your lips meet his with such delicacy at first that you can’t but help melt into him, fingers curling into soft blonde hair, riding on a heady rush born from kissing a stranger without even a trace of alcohol in your veins. His own hands hold you steady, one curled around your neck as if intending to keep you trapped there, the other warm against your cheek. It’s the sort of kiss that teeters between being soft and hungry. Of wanting just a taste and wanting it all.

It ends all at once, as abruptly as it had begun, cool air rushing between the two of you as he leans back, both breathless. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs that acted as my inspiration are 1) Renaissance - UJO, 2) Come as You Are - Prep School, and 3) Animal - Badflower & Meddle About - Chase Atlantic.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I CRAVE UNCOMPLICATED QUIET, AND THE SKY.”
> 
> -MARILYN HACKER, FROM WINTER NUMBERS: POEMS

He leaves soon after the kiss. It’s a mistake, really, to be so careless as to allow this unknown boy to grace his fingertips against your skin and exhale warmth into your neck. To want to offer yourself up to him like ripe fruit, sweet and untouched by anyone even remotely like him. Bright, ice cold and twirling. So you watch him leave from the doorway with a polite smile and never see him again.

That’s what would have happened usually, what _should_  have happened, had you been back home in familiar stomping grounds rather than alone in a foreign country where judgement or disapproval ceased to exist. Where you seemed to tiptoe into the unexplored unknown.

Yuri’s face reads as tentative wild uncertainty, but there’s a heated carnal glint to his eyes. Predator-like, wanting. “Y/N.” He utters your name as if it’s a benediction, barely loud enough to be a whisper, making you wonder how often he receives anything close to physical affection.

Nothing else needs to be said. You lean towards him, mouth quick to find his as you slide to straddle his lap, knees at his hips, arms snaking over lean shoulders. A low hum of satisfaction resonates up from Yuri’s chest and you feel his grip tighten, fingers pressing into the curve of your back. 

Kissing the Russian, you find, is far easier than not kissing him. Your lips slide over one anothers, his mouth soft but assertive as he pulls you into him, allowing gravity to sink you both down into the sheets. One gentle kiss becomes several, which then in turn grow in passion until you both run out of air and you’re forced to pull away, barely capable of moving your mouth more than a couple of millimetres from his. 

“You taste like the ice,” he says with dizzying conviction, your lips so sensitive that the air from his words tickle against them.

You press your body flat against his in response, a smug smirk forming on your face as you feel his hips jut against you unintentionally. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

It’s simple, then, to just lay there and listen to Yuri’s breathing, cheek pressed against his chest as he winds a curl of your hair around his finger. The contentedness that falls upon you is the sort that feels safe and drowsy, as if the essence of a lazy Sunday morning has been breathed into your veins. 

Outside, the sky begins to darken. Gold diamonds of light flicker on as streetlamps react, the buildings of the city shifting into creatures of darkness. 

“Yuri,” you murmur, glancing up to meet his gaze. It seems pensive, lost to private thought. You reach up to stroke his bottom lip, tempting him out of his reverie. “You’re a strange boy.” The statement is gentle, entwined with a fondness that you hadn’t entirely planned yet slipped out too fast for you to trap behind teeth.

“Maybe,” he responds, and with all of the grace that had first drawn your attention to him, he slides himself out from under you and gets to his feet. “But you’re stranger.”   


After that, he really does leave. The door shuts behind him, gym bag clutched in one hand, golden hair caught in the florescence of the hallway framing his face. Unreadable, peculiar, unforgettable. Lashes growing heavy, you fall asleep, bed sheets smelling of his lingering now ghost-like presence.

You don’t see him the next day. It seems to make sense to spend time alone, so you try your best not to look for him out of the window or whilst wandering through the hotel.

It’s the same the day after. Much to your own frustration, you linger in the reception for a little longer than usual, take your time by the pool just in case you catch a glimpse of the elusive figure skater.

He appears on the third day, halfway through breakfast whilst you peruse a newspaper to catch up on events from back home. 

“Your prime minister is a dick.”   


You glance over the rim of a white porcelain tea cup. His hair is tied up, the odd strand having escaped now tickling the line of his cheekbone. You try not to think about kissing him and fail completely. “I could say the same about your president,” you counter, taking a sip of hot liquid before placing it down.

“Probably.” Yuri pulls back the adjacent chair and sits down, plucking up a slice of uneaten toast before eating it hungrily. “They’re all dicks.”

It’s impossible to be annoyed with him, despite having an adequate number of reasons to be. Not because the steely, emotionless look in his eyes seemed to dissipate occasionally when he looked at you, or because being annoyed with a stranger made very little sense when you’d spent less than a couple of hours together. It was because, for some reason, he had chosen you as someone to spend time with the same way stray cats often decided to adopt owners.

“I bet you’re the sort of guy who can’t cope well with authority.” You raise a challenging eyebrow, attention cast back to the newspaper.  


“ **No**.” He replies a little too quickly and seems to notice, swift to defend himself with an explanation. “I just like to be in control.”  


“ _Mmhmm._ ” You scan over an article on budget cuts, completely aware of Yuri’s stare yet doing your best to avoid it.   


The Russian lets out a dramatic huff, snatching another piece of toast before standing up. “I was going to take you sightseeing,” he announces matter-of-factly, tearing at the crust with his teeth.

This catches your attention instantly and you disregard your previous efforts of playing the cool, disinterested femme fatale. “Where to?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Yuri shrugs, mid-chew. “Not sure I want to now.”  


You glower, folding up the newspaper. “It’s too cold outside anyway.”

He pauses, swallows. The sounds of cutlery against china plates fill the air with casual chatter. “Мокрая курица.”

“What?”  


“Coward. Stop being miserable. It’s only the cold.”  


Your frown only deepens. You know what he's doing, but can't help but fall into the trap. “I am _not_ a coward. Or miserable.”  


He shrugs. “Fine, then let’s go.”  


Without another word, Yuri turns on his heel and wanders towards the lobby door, barely acknowledging the other hotel residents. You watch as he glances over his shoulder, a crooked grin on his lips. “Are you coming or not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway through this chapter I realised that this may have started to become a fully-fledged fic rather than a mini one. Breakfast scene is dedicated to nicu, thanks for the inspiration! 
> 
> also: Yuri 100% ended up begrudgingly messaging Viktor for advice, which lead to excited messages from Yuuri, hence the sightseeing idea.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “WHAT IS INSIDE OF YOU BESIDES THIS HUMAN STUFF OF VEINS AND BONES AND EXISTENTIAL LONGING?”
> 
> -GABBY BESS, FROM “TIPPING,” ALONE WITH OTHER PEOPLE

He wanders the city as if it’s his hunting ground, slipping down back alley shortcuts and taking you through bustling markets without even so much as a blink at a sign or a glance at a map. This is the first clue that he’s been here before. More follow.

The snow you’d previously trekked through to watch him glide effortlessly upon the glistening frozen pond has all but disappeared, leaving behind a murky slush that squelches underfoot and coats smooth surfaces in a slippery layer of meltwater. It hasn’t done anything to raise the temperature, however, and you make an occasional grumble to highlight this point. Yuri ignores you the first five times, but seems to give in upon your sixth shivering exhale.

“I am aware it’s cold,” he says, glancing at you from beneath his hood.   


You scoff. “You’re a Russian ice skater. If _you_ think this is cold then imagine how I’m feeling.”

“If I had known you’d be like this, I would have left you at the hotel,” he grumbles. “I thought it would be a fun activity.”

“I can think of at least three fun activities that _wouldn’t_ have involved trekking in bitter winter,” you challenge, only aware of the provocations that the statement implied after hearing yourself say it.  


Like-minded, he stops mid-pace, moving to block your path. “And what would those three activities be?” The smirk on his face is audible and ever-growing as he watches you hesitate under his very intense and very _close_  gaze. He leans in a fraction more, until the warmth from each exhale is blossoming across your cold skin. It difficult not to watch his mouth, lips parting, accented words spoken softly. “ _We’re almost there_.” He straightens up with a humoured snort and carries on walking.

You push your gloved hands deep into your pockets in response, concentrating on returning your heart rate to a normal beat. A short while later a corner is turned and it is then that you realise where he’s leading you. The building sits alone, as ostentatious and grand as a monarch sat upon their throne. Spiralling domes stretch up towards the overcast sky, bright blue and beckoning.

“Церковь Спаса на Крови.” There’s something proud in Yuri’s voice, his tongue curling around the syllables. “The Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood.”  


“It’s beautiful,” you remark, stood beneath its shadow in awe.   


“Wait until you see inside.” This is the second clue that he is no stranger to the city. He steps towards the door with the smile of someone with a secret and you duck beneath his outstretched arm as he holds it open, letting out a breathy word of thanks that disappears into vapour.

Religion drips from the walls in the form of ornate paintings, gold and jewel-coloured, glistening in the light of dazzling chandeliers. Grandeur has been worked onto every surface, forced into every crack. Not a dark corner exists, shadows banished and replaced with beauty. Yuri stays soberly at your side as you fall into the ebb and flow of tourists. The air is full of under-the-breath whisperings, all partaking in their own forms of worship, ears rushing with the sound of your own breathing. It is an atmosphere that trembles with something great. Something holy.

When you finally leave, it seems almost foreign to try speaking in anything more than silent nudges and gentle nods. The two of you wander towards the canal, pausing to lean against the stone wall and stare down into the water. 

Yuri is first to break the quiet, voice slicing through it like a sharpened dagger. “Блять. Places like that used to help me think.” He says this with surprising venom, lips curled. It would have been startling after the undisturbed peace of the church had you not grown oddly familiar with this peculiar boy and his strange ways. There’s also something in his statement, the lingering frustration, that calls to the currently slumbering rage in your own chest; vexation born from a lack of direction. From a lack of purpose.

You watch him carefully, eyes fixed on him, noting the lingering of his mouth as it weighed and measured every word, tentatively deciding whether to divulge further or allow his private thoughts to remain undisclosed. For a moment, he appears crestfallen.

“There’s no need to explain,” you murmur softly, receiving a small, appreciative smile that flickers as quick as lightning. Blink and you miss it.   


“I want to show you somewhere else.” He takes you then by the hand, fingers curling around yours with solemn devotion, shoulders brushing as he takes you down streets that you’re _certain_  he has walked before.  


He stops in front of a grand looking building, an ornate sign attached to its facade reading каток, and in a smaller font underneath _ice rink._

“This isn’t your first time in St Petersburg.” You say it with certainty. 

“This city was my home once.” His hair has fallen across his face, shifting every time he blinks. You move to gently brush it aside but he catches your wrist, holding onto it tightly as if needing to anchor himself. “I moved here alone when I was 10 after being scouted. I hadn’t figured out the importance of skating yet, but I guess Yakov saw something in me. It was lonely. There was a group of us all around the same age, but we didn’t really want to make friends. The only thing that mattered to us was training to become the best. To win.” 

Yuri drops your hand. An electric sense of agitation has crept into his tone, expression hardening as something that taste like poison forms in the back of his mouth. It’s bitter and dark. “But what good is all that when you’re older? This place was where I practised, day in, day out. I won competitions, and I kept on winning. Until one day, I didn’t. My coach sent me here to retrace my past, to remember my history. But what good will that do?” 

His expression is riotous, caught in a vicious fight with his own head and heart. A fire burning itself out.

“Inspiration.” You understand it now, the small fragments of insight into Yuri Plisetsky’s life piecing together bit by bit. His reason for returning to the city. His desperate search for a program theme. His anger at not sparking a catalyst for motivation in the church. “You don’t know how to find it.”  


“I’ve skipped a whole season trying to. What use is a skater without inspiration?” He huffs out a hot mouth of air, scowling up at the building. “I refuse to return to competitions without it. If I don’t find something soon, I’m as good as dead.”   


Your jaw tightens at that. “Then _keep looking_.” You grab him by the chin, forcing his focus back to you. “You’re not the only person in the world to feel like this. Don’t be stupid. There are countless numbers of people all searching for inspiration, Yuri. Do you really think _I_ want to spend the rest of my life moping around hotels hoping to find a job that brings some meaning to life? A purpose?” 

He looks as you like you’ve just slapped him. Maybe you have. Maybe you _should_. 

And then he kisses you. It’s fierce, as if he’s angry with you for making him see sense. For reminding him that the world does not, in fact, revolve around him. But there’s desperation in it too. He thinks about being ten, waving goodbye to his grandfather as he’s ushered onto a train that will take him to greatness. He thinks about being thirteen and meeting Viktor for the first time, vowing one day he’d perform to the same standard (no, _better_ ). He thinks about being fifteen, of meeting Yuuri and learning that falling in love is as good as winning (no, _better_ ). Sixteen, the pressure to perform after winning the Senior Grand Prix. Seventeen, the constant drive for improvement, to keep his head above the rest. Eighteen, the ever-growing fear of losing, the terror of not being good enough. Nineteen, the desire to keep making everyone proud, to ensure he’s still admired and noticed. Twenty, the ache from the weight of it all, of a lost childhood and of peaking too soon…

You can taste the salt from his tears, wet against your own cheeks. Your grip on him tightens and he lets out a choked noise into your mouth that breaks your heart, lips drawing away to pull you closer into an embrace that is dearly needed by the both of you.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “AT THE END OF WINTER SOMETHING CHANGES  
> A FAINT SUBTRACTION  
> FROM CONSOLATIONS YOU EXPECTED  
> AN INNOCENT BRILLIANCE THAT DOES NOT COME”
> 
> -ADRIENNE RICH, EXCERPT OF DREAMS BEFORE WAKING FROM LATER POEMS: SELECTED AND NEW 1971-2012

You linger with the hug, unapologetic to the passers by and their raised brows. Neither of you are typically the sort to cling to another, and you wonder if maybe it’s because you were both reserving all of that held-back intimacy for _this_. Awaiting the correct moment to show the world that you are not devoid of feeling. That there will always be someone that you come undone for, someone worth that step into impulsive tenderness. His arms ensnare you, and yours him, shivering in the bitter afternoon. 

Yuri doesn’t take much convincing when you suggest getting a taxicab back to the hotel. His eyes are red from crying but there’s a hardened resolution to his gaze, steely and hell-bent on regaining the burning fire that fuelled him as a teenager. 

The Russian takes you by the hand as soon as you’ve stepped out the car, barely uttering a sound. He holds onto you insistently, incapable of even allowing the hotel elevator doors to slide closed before pressing you into the corner of the small space. “I need you to stop me from thinking,” he says, body trapping yours. “I want to forget for a while.”

You raise your chin to look at him; hauntingly beautiful, his expression is fierce and full of yearning. “Fortunately for you, I’ve been told I’m pretty skilled at being distracting.”

He lets out a single, low chuckle. “ _Good_.”

And then he kisses you hard, as though fuelled by the storm in his head. It’s different to your previous displays of affection, the careful tenderness and soft hesitations cast aside and replaced with a dazing ferocity that feels a lot like drowning. His tongue slides between your lips, hot and wet, the fingers in your hair entangling themselves desperately.

In the absence of speech, you grab onto the front of his shirt and pull him closer, uttering a sound of approval that escapes from deep within your chest. It isn’t until you hear the quiet  _ding_  that you remember where you are, the elevator opening to reveal the empty top floor corridor. Yuri half-drags you to his room, lips catching yours every few steps. You follow him blindly, the hand at your waist guiding you towards the door. 

It’s impossible to remember how you get from there to the floor of his room, even whilst it happens. You somehow remove your coat whilst maintaining body contact with Yuri at all times, a feat you would have pointed out as being rather impressive had your mind (and mouth) not been on other things. Other garments follow, aiding one another in rapidly revealing more and more skin until you find yourself straddling him in just your underwear. 

“You’re right,” he manages to murmur at some point, your lips hovering above his. “You are good at this.”  


“Did you doubt my abilities of distraction, Yuri Plisetsky?” you tease, deftly undoing his hairband without trailing your gaze from him, blonde hair splaying out across carpet.  


He responds by unclipping your bra. You deem this an adequate answer.

It would be easy to think that someone with so much serenity on the ice would be equally as gracious in the bedroom, that his angelic looks would be reflected in slow and cautious movements, but this assumption would be wrong. Yuri is assertive and vocal with what he wants, his mouth roaming your body, kisses occasionally punctuated with bite. He seems to revel in the control – he makes that much clear when you grind against his crotch and he expels a low hiss through his teeth, rolling you over onto your back with dizzying speed.

“Easy tiger,” you coo through a smirk which he is quick to mirror before turning his attention elsewhere, breath playing across your inner thigh.  


You watch the ceiling as his mouth works against the thin fabric of your underwear, eliciting a sharp gasp. Yuri laughs into you, a low purr of sound, and your hips involuntarily jolt at the sensation which only encourages him to do it again. 

When he finally removes the last item of clothing, your fingers are curled into his hair and beads of sweat glisten across your chest. He leans in, hair cascading around his face like a halo in the low light, drawing another kiss.

“ _Bed?_ ” you whisper, and he doesn’t need to be asked twice. He lifts you with ease, your legs wrapping around his torso as he moves, pressing you down into the mattress.   


It’s your turn to roll back on top of him, repaying his previous endeavours with a trail of kisses. Your mouth moves over his body, tracing the curve of his collarbone and the dip of his abdomen with your tongue. Teeth graze softly against a hip bone and he shifts beneath you, one hand stroking your hair encouragingly. You take his waistband between your teeth, drawing the material down over his erection before letting the elastic snap against his thigh. 

Yuri’s fingers slide beneath your chin, lifting your head and drawing you back towards him. “Come here котёнок,” he breathes. The kisses that follow are distracted and only half formed as you slide onto him, back arching. He lets out a grunt, watching on in a daze as you find a rhythm, feeling him sink further inside you.

It doesn’t take long until you’re both panting. You feel your body aching for him, the spaces under your nails itch wantingly. “ _Yuri_.” His name slips out with a moan.

Without warning, he rolls you over onto your back, his body hovering above yours. The newfound freedom is welcomed by you both as he takes his turn to orchestrate each movement, thrusting breathlessly, pulse hammering. Heat floods your veins, both heavenly and devilish, choking out a sound that he traps in his mouth. You squirm beneath him, ever-heightening spikes of pleasure setting alight to your limbs.

His own exhales become noises of lust as you tip over the peak, white hot release shuddering through your body. The Russian’s climax follows, carnal bliss overcoming him. He rests his forehead against your own, slowing in his actions until collapsing onto the sheets beside you.

You hum contently as he tucks your head under his chin, a blanket of lethargy falling upon you both. It’s easy to feel as though you’re drifting off as you lie there, fingers dancing playfully across his with light brushes and the occasional squeeze. Your heartbeat slows, but you try to ignore the fact that it stills feels as if it may burst from your chest. You realise then that it has been a long time since you last allowed your emotions to run wild and free, to embrace them rather than keep them locked tight within the prison-like cage of your ribs.

“судьба,” Yuri mumbles into the crown of your head, coaxing you away from your thoughts.

“Hm?”   


“You.” He speaks into your hair as if worried of the words escaping into the expanse of the room. “ _This_.”

Your lips part, yet unable to understand, a silent question.  


“Fate. That’s what I’ll use as my theme next season.

Turning to look at him, you feel soft the tug of a smile. “Fate.”

He nods once, a look of earnest happiness in his eyes. “My coach will like it. He’s a sucker for stuff like that.”

“But do _you_ like it?” you ask.  


He nods again. “I wouldn’t have met you without it.”

It is an answer you reward him for with a tender kiss, settling back down to welcome the approaching fingers of sleep to pull you in, ignoring the lurking feeling of something dark and hollow forming behind closed eyelids.

 

When you awake, it is to a darkened room and a slumbering figure skater. Carefully, you extract yourself from his side and tiptoe across the carpet, pulling on your hastily discarded clothes. Each action takes a great deal of self-convincing, your entire being wanting nothing more than to return to bed and trap yourself in Yuri’s arms. And yet you stand at the foot of the mattress looking down at the blonde boy, his hair a mess and his features peaceful. 

“[Y/N]?” he murmurs drowsily, seeming to feel your stare on him but so ensnared by sleep that he’s barely capable of opening one eye.

“Don’t worry, tiger. Stay there.” With a heavy heart, you press your lips to his forehead and then tear yourself away, leaving without daring to look back.

Returning to your own room, you push through the treacherous emotions playing havoc with your mind and collect your things. Suitcases stand in an orderly line by the door, having packed the previous morning. Leaving was not a topic you and Yuri had dared to broach. Perhaps you’d both wanted to live in the daydream-like fantasy that you’d conjured up together for a little longer. To escape reality.

The walk to the reception is a difficult one, the hotel silent around you as guests toss and turn in their sleep.

“Ah, [Y/L/N].” The staff member offers you a grin, blinking the previously bored look from their face. “A late check out. We were expecting you.”  


You offer a word of thanks and slide the room key across the counter top.

“The taxicab is ready and waiting outside to take you to the airport. We trust you enjoyed your stay.”  


“There’s one last thing I need to ask,” you say. Your voice is barely more than a whisper, a dull numbness having taken over. “Can you deliver a note to Room 17? Yuri Plisetsky. He’ll be expecting it.”  


The concierge accepts, of course, stealing glances as you scribble your heart down in ink.

> _Yuri,_
> 
> _The issue with fate is that it’s out of control.  
> _
> 
> _I wish I could stay, but lead very different lives. I want you to return to figure skating - that’s why I’ve left. I’d be a distraction otherwise. I don’t know the first thing about figure skating aside from the fact that emotion and expression is what fuels it. What fuels you. So be angry. Be sad. Be happy. Be anything and everything. Let it influence your performance for the good, take all of that motivation and do what you do best - **win**._
> 
> _I’ll find you at some point, I can promise that much, but now that you’ve found your inspiration I need to find mine._
> 
> _So go out there and skate for me. Make it painful, make it beautiful. I’ll be watching, tiger._

Once the sun has risen, the folded piece of paper is slid under Yuri’s door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an emotional wreck having written that. I've left it here for now as a cliff hanger, but I do have the intention of continuing this story soon - however, life means I'm so busy the next couple of weeks that it might not be until the end of the month that I update. Or, alternatively, it might be the day after tomorrow. We shall see!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “LET ME TELL YOU A SECRET ABOUT THE STARS.   
> THEY WISH THEY WERE SOFTER LOVERS.   
> THEY WISH THEY COULD FORGET HOW EASILY THEY BURN.”
> 
> \- FOR @BLUECALLA02 // L.H.Z (VIA LHZTHEPOET)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: If you read the previous chapter before the 14th January, I edited the last scene! This chapter was tricky to write, hence it being a little short and more of a filler if anything. In truth I had an entire plot planned out that involved a lot of arguing but these two are so precious that I didn't want to ruin the feel-good factor of this fic. Usually I'm all for a bit of angst with my characters, whereas I just want to wrap this pair up in blankets! So my apologies if this isn't up to standard -- I'll make up for it with their reunion, I promise.

It’s been months since your trip to Russia; summer has come and gone, hot, sweet and sticky. The nights have begun to draw in, but you find yourself grateful to the ever-approaching winter and all that it entails. Even the cold.   


Regret sits upon your shoulders like a beady-eyed crow searching for scraps of carrion to feast upon. The weight is heavy, made worse by the fact it was brought on by your own sacrifice. Perhaps it was selfish to leave him. Perhaps your intentions, whilst good at the time, had severed all ties with Yuri Plisetsky for good. Or perhaps you were over-analysing things, being narcissistic, and your presence in his life had been but a blink of an eye. Commonplace and swift.

You try not to think about it. Let the weeks pass by and keep your chin up, telling yourself that you would see him again in due time. It takes a lot of self-control to stop yourself from reaching out, but you know that the last thing he would need is distractions. And perhaps the distance would influence his interpretive program performance for the better. Loving and hurting were all part of living, after all; bittersweet.

It’s impossible to avoid checking up on him, however. You keep yourself updated as he passes through various Olympic qualifying rounds during the early season, attempting to read his movements as if they were tea leaves in the bottom of a teacup. But his emotions are impossible to translate. Every leap and every pirouette seems fuelled by intense persistence and stubborn perfection (you picture him with perfect clarity practising the same move tirelessly, growling at every minor slip up), his expression sharp and schooled during every interview. Yuri Plisetsky had found his inspiration and was there to win - that much was certain.

You think of him kissing you and wonder whether that same softness still exists in the boy on screen.   


Time ticks on but thoughts of him seem to follow you wherever you go, lingering in your periphery, dancing upon your tongue. The idea of contacting him terrifies you just as much as not contacting him, so you find yourself caught in an ever revolving cycle of wanting and not wanting, a constant ache present in the hollow of your chest.

When the final Winter Olympic qualifying competition for the Russian team comes around, you find yourself unable to watch, so instead you await with quiet diligence for the final scores to be posted online. Vacant stare set at the bright screen, there’s a nervous tightness in your chest, born from an almost selfish desire to see him win - to know that your influence on him had reignited the spark that fuelled his deadly ambition.

The page refreshes and you know what you must do. Tentatively, you heed the silent beckoning of your phone, tapping his name into the instagram search bar, the word  _follow_ putting him within digital reach. One touch of those illuminated letters and you’d regain the invisible thread holding you together. You hold your breath, the tip of your finger pressing the button. 

He reciprocates the action an hour later, the gentle buzz alerting you to the subsequent message.

> ** ↳ Finally decide I’m worth your time, [Y/N]? **

The sentence is bitter; you can almost taste it.

> _ You’re through to the Winter Olympics. **↲** _
> 
> ** ↳ I am. **
> 
> _ I’m proud. **↲** _
> 
> ** ↳ Cool.  **

You let a small frustrated growl, typing with added fervour.

> _Are you really going to do this? **↲**_   
> 
> 
> **↳ What. You were the one who disappeared.**   
> 
> 
> _ I had to. You were the world number one in your sport. Now that you’ve found your inspiration, your motivation, you don’t need me distracting you. **↲** _
> 
> ** ↳ That’s my decision to make, not yours. Besides, you and I both know the real reason why you left. **
> 
> _ And that was? **↲** _
> 
> ** ↳ You were scared. Scared of dedicating yourself. You said you couldn’t find your purpose. What if it was to be here to support me? **

Your brow furrows at that. You stare at the screen, reading and rereading his message, having failed to consider that he would _still_ need you after figuring out his short program theme and after your short but sweet night together.

> _You’re doing just fine from the sound of things. **↲**_   
> 

He takes a long moment to reply. 

> **↳ I’d perform even better in Beijing if you were with me.**   
> 

In that moment, you want nothing more than to hold him. To watch his hardened gaze soften, to listen to his honeyed voice. Previously guarded emotions shiver as if aware of their mortality. 

> _ Truly? **↲** _
> 
> **↳ Yes. I need you.**   
> 

You don’t need to be asked again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I NEED A […] LANGUAGE   
> AS LARGE AS LONGING  
> \- RUMI, THE FRAGILE VIAL

Beijing is a living, breathing monster of bright lights and noise. It’s a funfair carousel ride of a city, ever-moving, ever-loud; the sort that mesmerises you into a stunned daze before consuming you with its thick, heavy air. There is an emphasis on the _new_  here, a constant craving for the modern. You yourself are a novelty for now, but you can’t help but feel as if you’d swiftly be replaced with an updated model should you stay too long. 

You watch the buildings pass by out of the car window, lights twinkling in the drops of rain that race watery streams across your vision. A chauffeur had met you at the airport, your name scrawled across a white rectangle of card. He hadn’t uttered a word; merely took your luggage and let you follow him like a lost little shadow to the black sedan. You’d have found the whole thing rather ominous was it not for your phone buzzing with messages every few minutes.

> **↳ Just finished warm down.**
> 
> **↳ Gonna head back to my team’s apartment.  
> **
> 
> **↳ I’ll meet you at your hotel as soon as I can.**   
> 

It’s difficult to prevent a smile from dancing across your lips as you watch the screen cradled in your hands. You wonder if Yuri is nervous or excited. Whether he too feels small in the face of the unknown, of leaping over the edge of the cliff into the clear waters of the lagoon below. There were rules that you were certain you were breaking. Ones that prevented people from dropping everything to be with someone they’d only met once, deterred by the voice in their head that whispers about caution and the absurdity of finally giving in to your heart. Your fingers glide across the screen.

> _See you soon. ↲_   
> 

It’s almost apt, you decide some time later as you wander your room, that you are back in a hotel. A place of limbo where nobody belongs, guests lost to a list of ever growing inhabitants. You could be anyone you wanted to be in a hotel. Fabricate your own existence, have conversations with those who usually reside on the other side of the world. You find yourself wanting nothing more than to lie down, close your eyes, and pretend you were back in Russia. As if you had conquered time completely and twisted it for your own selfish pleasure. 

Your phone vibrates and you swallow down the nervous thing residing in your chest. 

> **↳ I’m here.**   
> 

You leave the room, begin down the quiet hallway towards the elevator. It’s a dream-like descent through the storeys, your gaze fixed on the doors which, after what seems like an age, slide open to reveal the lobby. It’s impossible to not look like you’re scanning every single face, searching for a glimpse of blonde. Various guests catch your line of sight, offer you a smile or regard you with uncomfortable frowns. Many are shrouded in the colours of their nations, flags and emblems painted upon their faces like war paint. It was strange, how irrelevant this global sporting event seemed from your perspective until now. And yet you were all gathered here for the same reason, were you not? Dedication. Devotion. Support.

You return your attention to your phone.

> _Where? ↲_   
> 

He replies immediately. 

> ** ↳ The back of the building. **

You can’t help but roll your eyes at his lack of directions. You slip through the doors of the hotel with a burning sense of urgency, air tasting acrid in the back of your throat despite the previous rain. Or perhaps that was simply the nerves. Your pace slows as you turn the corner to see the narrow back alley down the side of the hotel, a sign reading _EMPLOYEES ONLY_  glaring at you as you pass it by. 

Yuri watches you approach, blue eyes bright, mouth hidden behind a mask that he’s swift to pull down. He seems to detach himself from the shadows, stepping forwards into your path. Your strides don’t stop, they don’t dare. You walk straight into his arms, uncertain which of you pulled the other one in, wrapping yourself around him as a hungry ache subsides within.

Around you, the city hums.

He is the first to pull away, allowing the evening air to fill the space between you. But you can still feel the heat on your face from his presence. 

“You left,” he says, the drawl of his accent thick like honey. It is both an accusation and a fact, words shot from his mouth landing somewhere at your feet.   


“Do we have to talk about this now,” you reply, but _of course_  you do. This is Yuri Plisetsky. As delicate as he can be, subtlety isn’t in his vocabulary. “I returned,” you point out. “I always intended to.”

He nods, searching your gaze. “Why.” It’s not a question but a demand. This time you know he’s aimed the words for your chest. They hit dead centre, a perfect bullseye. 

“Because you needed me.” 

“да.”.  


There’s a heartbeat of hesitation before you release the truth from your jaws. “And I need you.”  


It’s difficult to read his expression. His hair is longer than when you first met, partially shielding his face from view. There’s a glimmer of surprise, or maybe relief, as if you’ve plucked this angel boy from heaven upon hearing his lament of longing. Or maybe he’s fallen because he heard _yours_.

He leans in and ducks his head and you share a breath before his lips are on yours, burning like a wildfire, consuming you whole. It’s familiar yet intoxicating. You blindly reach for his hand, fingers intertwining with his. A secret pact, a silent promise. The kiss tastes of longing tamed.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he speaks into your mouth. “I will perform better with you watching, I think.”

“Yeah?” You’re surprised to hear this, a ruthless greed for any words of affection that he utters sparked within, pushing for more.   


Yuri traces his thumb along the curve of your cheekbone. “I want you to feel how I feel when I skate. Every movement. Every emotion.”   


You nod in soundless understanding.

“There is two days before my event. My coach has a strict regime in place for me so we won’t be able to spend much time together until it’s over. I had to slip away to be here now.” A nervous edge resides in each syllable, coiled and tense as if ready to pounce.

“Is _that_ why we’re stood in a dingy back alley?” You raise an eyebrow at your surroundings, rectangles of light from the narrow windows of the hotel kitchen stretching out across the tarmac and catching on the surface of oily looking rainwater puddles.

“No, that’s because of the fans.” He huffs out a small laugh at your querying expression. “My supporters. They can be -- _persistent_.”   


“A _fan club_ ,” you echo in a sing-song tone. “Does that make you Russia’s sweetheart?”

“Whatever.” Yuri tuts but there’s humour to his tone. 

“I’ll see you at the event then,” you say, noticing him swallow in anticipation for the chance at glory.   


“I’ll get you a VIP access pass to the venue.” 

“Thanks.”  


There’s a momentary pause of flux, conversation held upon the tips of your tongues as you watch one another with a thousand things to say and nothing to speak. Instead of uttering anything, you lean into him and hug him hard, reciprocation felt in the tightening of his own arms around you. His heartbeat flutters.

“Make your comeback historic,” you say softly. “I’ll be right there with you.”  


“I will win for us,” he swears devoutly.   


You press a kiss against his jaw and watch him leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being so patient waiting for this latest chapter! The next one is likely going to take a similar amount of time as I'm away travelling on a research project next week~


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A ROOM IS, AFTER ALL, A PLACE WHERE YOU HIDE FROM  
> THE WOLVES. THAT'S ALL ANY ROOM IS."  
> \- JEAN RHYS, FROM GOOD MORNING, MIDNIGHT

When you fall asleep that night, it is with a soft smile upon your lips and a sense of tranquil peace curled up within your chest. 

When you awake the next afternoon, shaking off your jetlag-fuelled daze, it is to a raging storm of chaos and a very persistent knocking sound.

It takes a moment for your brain to kick into motion as you blink the sleep from your eyes, frowning at the abrupt awakening. For the briefest of disorientating moments, you forget where you are, mind whirling until your thoughts regather themselves. The light drifting in through a gap in the curtains seems cold and grey, the time on your phone reading 13:21.

The visitor knocks again impatiently. “Okay, okay,” you murmur, bare feet curling into the carpet as you wander over to the door, sliding the lock back and barely given the chance to speak before a frantic looking blonde pushes his way inside, re-locking the door behind him.

“Yuri?”   


He slides off a pair of sunglasses, blue eyes set into a scowl, letting out an audible growl of frustration as someone else’s knuckles hammer on the door after him.

“Leave it,” he snaps, snatching ahold of your wrist to prevent you from letting anyone else in, fingers gripping onto you tight.  


“Wh--” you begin, frowning in ruffled confusion, but he anticipates the question and is already offering an answer. All be it one spat through barred teeth with no small amount of venom.

“The fucking Ублюдок. He knew this would happen if he kept taking them. He had his warning. But the _pressure_. It was bad before but fuck I guess his new coach pushed him too far. And now the committee know and the media have got their hands on it.”  


You let the stream of words spill from his mouth, twisted into a snarling shape as he paces back and forth. There’s a madness that has set in, one seen in the eyes of a caged animal who has spent too long behind bars.

“And now they’re threatening an investigation into the entire team. A fucking _investigation.”_   The final word is pushed out through clenched jaws. Anger, it seems, runs through his blood, thick and hot and inescapable. He draws back his elbow, pauses, and moves to throw a fist at the wall. But you’re quick to catch it, all momentum softening as his punch hits your palm. 

The impact is painless but it doesn’t stop you from gasping. “ _Yuri_.” 

When he looks at you then, it’s through silent tears which have gathered along his bottom lashes. They hang there for a moment, like glistening jewels on a chandelier, before making the descent down his tired face. He takes a step forward and presses his head into your shoulder, sinking into you as you hold him. His body shakes, exhausted and hopeless, but he doesn’t make a sound. A few heartbeats later and another knocking at the door causes you to startle.

“Ignore them,” he begs into the crook of your neck, voice low.   


“Who is it?” you ask.  


“Reporters. Fans. I don’t know.”  


With a nod, you tug on his sleeve and lead him to a sofa which is yet to be sat on. He drops down onto the cushion before putting his head in his hands, barely stirring when you join him other than to pass you his phone.

The news article headlines on the screen say it all:

**RUSSIAN SKATER BANNED FOR STEROID USE.**

**RUSSIAN FIGURE SKATING TEAM PENDING DOPING INVESTIGATION.**

**SKATING SCANDAL AT THE WINTER OLYMPICS.**

 

You feel your heart sink. “They want to investigate all of you this close to the event?”

Yuri shrugs. “They’re making the decision now. He’s been disqualified. They might do the same to all of us if they don’t want to take the risk.” His voice comes close to breaking, the anger cold and quiet.

It’s difficult to imagine what it feels like to see your future crumble into dust at your very feet. You can only imagine it’s a lot like watching Rome burning.

“Come here,” you whisper, beckoning him closer, and he shifts his body until he’s lying horizontal on the sofa, his head in your lap.

“Everything was going so well.” He frowns, closing his eyes. “I was so _ready_.”  


You don’t know what to say, so instead find your fingers winding into his hair, stroking the blonde locks smooth. He hums contentedly, previously tense muscles relaxing ever so slightly as he realises the weight of the world isn’t his to carry alone.

“Will you come with me? To find out their decision.” It’s spoken so softly that even in the near noiseless room you have to listen close.

“Of course,” you reply, watching his lashes flutter open. You lower your head to kiss him gently, feeling the tender curve of a smirk play upon his mouth.

“Your hair is tickling me, котенок,” he mock complains, one hand on the back of your head drawing you closer again when you try to move away.

Another knock on the door makes you both pause, sharing one another’s breaths.

“ебать. We’ll have to make a run for it,” he says, sitting up and helping you to your feet.  


“Did they follow you all the way here?” You glance at him whilst rooting through your yet-to-be-unpacked suitcase, pulling out clothes that you hoped were inconspicuous enough.  


“Yeah.” He plucks a black jumper from the case and passes it to you approvingly. “I tried to lose them but stopped caring. I just wanted to get here.”  


You glance at him whilst getting changed, humoured when he turns his back to gaze in feigned interest at a painting above the bed. “Everything will be okay, tiger,” you promise, fiddling with the button at your waist whilst searching for some make up. Minimalism is key, you decide, but can’t help reminding yourself of the cameras and press.

Yuri is silent for a long while as you get ready, appearing behind you in the bathroom mirror once you’ve finished. “I’m glad you’re here.” The sincerity clings to every syllable.

You turn on the spot and let him take your hand, leading you to the door. “So am I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get this out before I go on my trip!!! I've only proofread it properly once so I apologise for any spelling/wording issues. Hope you enjoy it, and see you guys when I get back!~


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “…IN MY HEART THERE WAS A KIND OF FIGHTING   
> THAT WOULD NOT LET ME SLEEP.”
> 
> -WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, HAMLET

You run hand in hand through the hotel like you’re five years old and being chased by the imaginary monster under your bed. You run as if evading screaming sirens or the dark shadows biting at your heels. As if being breathless and dizzy with adrenaline was the only way to feel alive.

The two of you scatter down the stairs, a grin set widely on your lips as Yuri swears colourfully at the media and the unfolding of events and the fact that you chose to stay in a room on the top floor of the multi-storey hotel. The stream of words is a mixture of English and Russian, punctuated with the odd laugh or humoured snort when you jump a number of steps and pull him with you.

Once you’ve evaded the hounding of the press inside the hotel and set foot outdoors, a whole new chase begins. You realise that, up until now, you had somewhat underestimated Yuri’s standing in the figure skating world. He wasn’t just a talented sportsman, but also a legend drenched in fame. Cameras flash, striking like lightning even in the middle of the day, leaving you blinking as Yuri glances from beneath his hood, wide-eyed and alert.

“C’mon,” he urges, your rushed footsteps in perfect sync as you duck into a nearby department store in a bid to lose a particularly persistent photographer.   


Stepping onto an escalator, you watch as they disappear into a crowd of shoppers, breathing out a sigh of relief and resting the side of your head against the blonde’s shoulder. “ _Wow_.”

“Yeah.” There’s a concerned pause. His hand is still holding tightly onto yours, fingers locked together. “It’s not always like this.”   


You step off the escalator before responding. “Do they really think that you might be involved? In the drugs scandal?”

“They’re stupid.” His gaze drops to the floor and you follow him through the perfume department, a cacophony of scents blossoming up from every shelf. Someone offers you a strip of paper with a sample on. You pause to take it with a smile before wafting it under your nose. _Lily. Vanilla. Jasmine._

Yuri drops your hand, replacing it with his phone. You watch carefully as his fingers slide over the keyboard, a frown of concentration on his face, your eyes fixed on him. Frustration has ignited throughout his body, you can see it sparked in every motion, every twitch of his lips. Innocent prey caught in a web of lies, you try and search for the right way to console him.

“I’d do anything for you, tiger.”  


The confession slides from your mouth before you can even dare to close your jaw around it. Yuri pauses with his text but doesn’t look up from the screen. He nods, exhales, and carries on typing. Nothing is uttered in return, but the tension in his shoulders seems to lessen somewhat.

You decide that’s it’s as good a reaction as you’re going to get for now given the currently chaotic state of his life.

He slides his phone back into his pocket. “My coach is picking us up.” 

The license plate of the car that pulls up outside the store a short while later suggests it is a rental, but the sleek body and the well-polished shine of the dark grey paint hints at it being a very _expensive_  one. The driver window winds down, if somewhat dramatically, to reveal a silver-haired male. “There you are Yuratchka,” he chimes.

“Привет.” Yuri opens a door and gestures for you to get in. You notice the driver raising an eyebrow, the curve of his lips curling into something not unlike a smirk, but he says nothing.

You slide in, settling back against the leather. Outside, a journalist emerges from the passers-by but is scolded away by Yuri as he slams the door closed behind him.

A man in the passenger seat twists around instantly. “Where did you go?! There’s less than an hour until the conference. We need to make sure you’re prepared, no matter what the outcome. Viktor said to stay put, and– _oh_.” He pauses, regarding you in surprise. His glasses glint in the sunlight as the car pulls away from the curb and begins its journey towards the Olympic village. “Uh… sorry… hello.”

You offer a small smile, uncertain as to how to proceed in the midst of a rather domestic-sounding quarrel. “Hi.”

The dark haired man’s line of sight flicks between you and Yuri a number of times before straightening himself up in his seat, attention returning to the road. He digs an excited elbow gently into the side of the driver who hums in agreement to their wordless conversation. Beside you, Yuri tuts loudly.

“This is [Y/N],” he says, and this seems to be an adequate explanation as to your presence in the car. “These two are my coaching team.”  


“I’m Viktor,” the driver responds, grinning in the rearview mirror. “And this is Yuuri.” He inclines his head towards the other male who fails in his attempts to hide the smugly proud expression on his face.   


You pass a look at Yuri but he’s already closed his eyes, a sense of peace settling upon him as if comforted by the company. “Nice to meet you.” It’s a pitifully formal thing to say, but you find yourself wanting to give a good impression. “Despite the circumstances.”  


“The last day or so has been _hectic_ ,” Yuuri confesses. 

“It’s the last thing our team needs,” Viktor adds in agreement. The furrowing of his brow speaks volumes. “The effect it has on the skaters this close to the event is irreversible. Unfair, even.”

“Better safe than sorry, though, given the past,” Yuuri reasons, and you pick up on a sense of serene balance between the two in the front seats. “If doping starts getting popular again, it’ll be dangerous. You know what happened last time.”  


“What happened last time?” you ask, and Yuuri turns in his seat once more.  


“Oh– sorry. I sort of assumed you were one of Yuri’s Angels.”  


You let out a single soft laugh. “No, I’m kind of new to all this. Before I met Yuri, figure skating wasn’t really that important to me.”

“But it is now?” Viktor queries rhetorically, seemingly pleased.  


You make an attempt to conceal the tender smile that pulls at the corners of your mouth but don’t succeed. 

“Russia holds their figure skaters in high regard. We’re equally as famous as movie stars and hit singers. Sometimes the pressure gets to be too much and drugs or blood transfusions are offered to help increase endurance and performance.” Viktor pauses his explanation as he approaches a security check point, flashing an ID card at the security personnel before pulling forwards under the raised barrier. “A few years ago someone on the team did just that, and they paid the price for it.”  


“Heart failure,” Yuuri murmurs quietly.   


“Hence the irritation at this current scandal.” Viktor sighs, shaking his head. “The committee could pull the entire team out of the event, even if their previous tests have come back clear.”

“If they do, I will fight them all,” Yuri growls suddenly, eyes still closed. 

“Let’s get some food first,” Viktor recommends.

Yuuri nods vigorously. “We can go over our action plan again.”

Yuri stirs, leaning into you against the will of his seatbelt, his head resting protectively atop yours. “Sure. Whatever.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “YOU ARE AT ONCE BOTH THE QUIET AND THE CONFUSION OF MY HEART.”
> 
> -FRANZ KAFKA

“How long do we have until it begins?”  


“About ten minutes, hopefully.”  


“There’s a lot of press here.”  


“There is. I guess it’s to be expected. Maybe I should have worn Armani.”  


“Do you think they will announce the verdict straight away? Or will they do the classic thing of going on and on whilst everyone just sits there chewing on their lips and twiddling their thu–”

“ _Yuuri_.” Viktor places a hand on his husband’s shoulder with a gentle smile. “It’s okay.”  


Yuuri pauses, squeezes the other man’s hand in response, and continues pacing. Beside you, Yuri is silent, his vacant blue stare set firmly on the floor. The function room smells of new carpet and plastic chairs, the space filled with anxious Russian athletes, their similarly ruffled coaches and supporters, and a hungry pack of journalists all with their attention fixed to their phones. 

“This is bullshit,” Yuri growls, the sound seeping from his mouth. He hasn’t moved an inch for the past ten minutes, limbs incapable of shifting as if frozen in anticipation (or fear) of that which was to come.   


You watch the second hand of a clock on the far wall tick by in endless circles, creeping slowly past the numbers. There was something distinctly sad about the entire situation. You could feel the nervous melancholy of all the sportsmen and sportswomen in the room, shifting beneath their red and white jackets, expressions schooled but eyes wide. All of their hard work and dedication was now balanced precariously at what could be the pinnacles of their careers, left to the fate of a single decision. A single outcome.

“Do you want anything?” You try to seek out Yuri’s line of sight but he shakes his head and it causes blonde locks to obscure your view of his face.  


Somehow, you keep yourself from pulling him into a reassuring embrace and instead slip out of the room and its heavy limbo-like atmosphere. Finding refuge in a lonely water cooler, you watch as bubbles float carelessly to the surface, fingers clasping a flimsy plastic cup which becomes cold to the touch as it fills with liquid. 

“Thank you for being here.”

The sudden voice startles you out of your pensive trance, catching a dark haired figure in your periphery. 

Yuuri offers a sheepish look of apology as you turn around. “Sorry. I just wanted to say that before the verdict is announced. It’s important that Yurio has you here with him, he’ll need your support if they decide to ban Team Russia from competing in the event. I mean, he’ll need it anyway, but the past year or so has been tough on him.”

You nod, simultaneously honoured and self-conscious of your actions. It takes a moment for you to find your tongue. “I’m glad he has a strong coaching team behind him. You seem to take good care of him.”

“Yes,” Yuuri hums in agreement. “Yes, but it’s not always enough. You can have the best coach in the world and still fall flat on your face on the ice.” He lets out a small laugh, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Sometimes you need more than that. You need the person whose soul understands your own. The one that makes you realise that everything is going to be okay, regardless of the outcome.”  


“And you think that I’m that person?” It isn’t that you doubt yourself, rather that you question Yuri’s own view of you. Thus far, the two of you had orbited around one another like twin satellites, but were yet to confess any deep feelings. Yet to collide.

“I think you _could_  be.” Yuuri searches your eyes as if passing judgement by reading your irises like a prophetic optician. There is a contradicting sharp softness to him, as if capable of breaking your heart and piecing it together in one fell swoop. “That’s why I want you to be certain that you’re ready for anything. If the Olympic Committee choose to disqualify the skaters, it could get messy.”

You hold his gaze resolutely in understanding. Was Yuuri trying to protect  _you_ or _Yuri?_ Or both. “I understand,” you reassure him. "You don’t need to worry.”

“Thank you,” he says again, this time quieter, before stepping forwards and enveloping you in a warm hug. The supportive sincerity is enough to make your eyes water, blinking away the threat of tears with a smile.  


The two of you return to the function room, taking up your places in the empty seats between an impatient looking Viktor and a scowling Yuri. You sip the water as a distraction as someone steps onto the makeshift stage and shuffles some papers behind the pedestal. They clear their throat and then, all at once, are met by a hushed quiet that descends like thick fog. 

Yuri’s fingers tighten around the edge of his seat, knuckles white. You place your free hand over his, not daring to look away from the front of the room.

Formalities are exchanged. Explanations are offered. The chairman of the committee divulges the need for strict regulations and the importance of monitoring for doping, unswayed by the disgruntled murmurs in Russian that blossom up from the audience. Your breath hangs impatiently in the hollow of your mouth, quivering, ready to be inhaled or exhaled. After what seems like an age, they get to the point.

“And thus, we will therefore only extend the opportunity to compete in tomorrow’s singles figure skating events to those who have passed all previous drug tests in the last five years.”  


A sigh of relief is exhaled in unison. Some of the skaters yell in outrage, supposedly unable to compete given past actions. Yuri’s face is blank for a moment, eyes searching the reactions around the room, before his mouth splits into a grin. “ _Fuck yeah!_ ” He all but pounces at you, lips crashing into yours, pulling you into him. 

“I think you look cute,” Viktor observes happily several hours later as you flick through various articles on your phone, each one illustrated with you and Yuri tangled up in one another. “Look at that one. _Russia’s Ice Tiger Melts.”_  

You pull a face, far from keen on being thrust so suddenly under the watchful gaze of the public eye. “I suppose I’d better get used to all of this.” It’s difficult not to cringe slightly at a news post that describes you as ‘ _the only drug Plisetsky needs’,_ swiftly putting the device down.  

“It can be tiring. When Yuuri and I got married, we tried to distance ourselves from the media entirely. Or at least, he did. I had to make sure they reported all of the details correctly.” He cracks a grin, toying with the ring on his left finger as he drifts into the beckoning recollection of days well spent.  


With an exhausted yawn, you attempt to stretch the drowsiness from your limbs. Yuri had already been ordered to go to bed (he had grumbled when Yuuri advised he get some sleep but trudged back to his room nevertheless) following a final rehearsal session, one which he had been adamant about you not being present at. 

“I want you to watch properly on the day,” he’d confessed. “Not rewatch what you’ve already seen me practice.”  


So instead, you had spent some time exploring the Olympic Village and ended the evening in a bar with Viktor, who was more than happy to share a drink or two to shake off lingering tension from the day’s events.

“You know,” the Russian muses his voice cutting through the noise of chatter and clinking glasses, swirling his drink in one hand. “I don’t think he’s doing it for the medal anymore.”  


You frown, words forming around the straw between your lips. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t think placing first is that important to Yuri now. It was before, when he stopped winning and wanted nothing more than to get back on that podium.” Viktor pauses, takes a thoughtful sip, and then continues. “What he really wants is for you to see him at his best.” 

“He doesn’t need to, I’ve always been impressed by him.” The words roll of your tongue and you blame its loosening on the alcohol and on Viktor’s ability to elicit sentiment.   


He looks at you, smiling brightly. “That’s good to hear.” And you know that he means it, truly. “I’ve seen Yuri train since he was a child. Watched him grow and mature. But there’s been a real change in him since the two of you met.”

It sounds like a cliche, one you aren't convinced exists outside of romantic novels. “A good one?” you question curiously, half convinced that Viktor is simply teasing.

“Of course,” Viktor says seriously. He finishes his drink without even flinching at its hot chemical burn. “I don’t think he would have coped otherwise. For all his bravado, Yuri is terrified of failure.” 

You raise your brows briefly, staring into your own empty glass. “Aren’t we all.”

Surprisingly, Viktor shakes his head with a laugh. “I thought so too once. But then I met Yuuri. When you find someone like that, the only thing you can be scared of is losing them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a confession and it's that I was super conflicted about publishing this now as part of me knows I ought to have slept on it and reread through this chapter tomorrow just to make sure it upheld some sort of standard, but I wanted to get this update out because it made me so happy to write and I NEEDED to share it. So voila! Also I am still a bit iffy with my characterisation of Viktor and Yuuri (I feel like I'm not doing them justice? idk, I just love the ice gang so much). There was also an unintentional lack of Yuri in this chapter, but rest assured I will make up for it in the next one!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "NEVER APOLOGIZE FOR BURNING TOO BRIGHTLY,  
> OR COLLAPSING INTO YOURSELF EVERY NIGHT.  
> THAT IS HOW GALAXIES ARE MADE."  
> -TYLER KENT WHITE

>    _ **3 hours to go**_

_ “...and let’s not forget yesterday’s drama. Team Russia have certainly taken a hit, but fans will be pleased to hear that many medal-favourites will still be competing in today’s Men’s SIngles Short Program.” _

_ “That’s true. It would have been quite the upset if they had all been disqualified. Especially now that the Ice Tiger himself is back in the rink after taking some time out from the sport.”  
_

_ “You know, many speculated that Plisetsky’s break was inspired by skating legend Viktor Nikiforov, who if you recall did a similar thing a few years ago when taking a year out to coach.” _

_ "Perhaps a hiatus is all part of the game plan with these Russian boys? I can certainly say that it appears to have done some good. In the lead up to these Olympic Games, Plisetsky was back out there skating with a fierceness that we haven’t seen from him in a while.” _   


_ “Who knows, maybe this is the start of a truly remarkable comeback. But we digress! Let’s return to the ice hockey over in the stadium with Lee. Lee, how’ssssss--” _

Static spills from the speakers, the radio losing signal as your taxi cab passes through the mouth of a tunnel which swallows up the car in its artificial golden glow, welcoming it into the ever-flowing stream of traffic. The driver tuts, switching it off, your thoughts left with the gentle hum of the engine as their only soundtrack. You close your eyes, attempting to calm the excited nerves that had already made themselves at home in your stomach, fluttering on occasion as if to remind you of today’s importance. There was something romantic about the unpredictable nature of life and the fact that, if you hadn’t decided to glance out of your window for the briefest of moments, you may never had met Yuri Plisetsky. You certainly wouldn’t have ever kissed him, tangled up in hotel sheets; nor would you have flown to Beijing to watch him perform on the world stage.

He had offered you a new perspective, and a new purpose. There was endless satisfaction in watching him grow and flourish, picking himself up from the darkness of failure, proving to himself that he did still have what it takes to be the champion he’d been as a teenager. That he hadn’t peaked too soon in his career.

You feel your jaw tighten at that thought. _A career_. You were yet to find anything of merit, and were perhaps using this opportunity to hide from the terrifying unknown future that lay ahead. What was going to happen after all of this? Yuri would surely return home to Japan with Yuuri and Viktor. And you’d be back where you started, chasing down interviews and waiting for a job that _meant something_.

It isn’t until the vehicle begins to slow that you allow your lashes to flicker open. The car pulls up outside the exact spot VIktor had bid you goodbye the night before (he had at first offered to drive you back to your hotel, but then recalled the alcohol playing through his bloodstream and paid for your ride instead), and you tip the driver before striding off in pursuit of the warm-up rink.

> _ **2 hours and 21 minutes to go** _

You watch him stretch, limbs reaching for unseen heights. A toned, pale sliver of skin is revealed as the bottom hem of his t-shirt rises. He seems lost to the routine, all focus aimed at the way his muscles move, counting silently as the pose is held, statue-still and picturesque. _One. Two. Three. Four. Five_. Someone skates past where he’s stood, chirping his name cheerfully. He doesn’t respond, his attention on other things. _Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen._  You follow the curve of his body and realise that not a single piece of art has ever made you so enraptured. Beauty drips from him, delicate and handsome. _Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty._

Yuri looks up and catches you studying him. “You’re staring,” he says, mouth in a crooked smirk.

“I know,” you reply, mirroring his expression. “You’re very distracting.”  


He snorts, flexing again in response, letting out a low, mischievous and entirely sexual sound.

“Stop it,” you complain gently, wanting nothing more than to reach out and touch him, desire running hot through your veins.

The Russian straightens himself up, moving to stand before you in a few long strides. “Or what, котенок?”  Something burns bright in the blue of his eyes. He places a hand on the wall by your head, wisps of blonde hair falling from his dishevelled ponytail and into his face. 

You wet your lips, trailing your fingertips down his warm chest, pulse beating beneath the material. “Or I’ll end up distracting _you_. I haven’t forgotten that night. The elevator. The floor. The bed.”

He hums approvingly, swallowing as if the memory alone was enough to make him salivate.

“Having fun?” Comes a humoured voice. Viktor smiles, visibly entertained by the sight before him and entirely unconcerned by the awkwardness caused by him potentially overhearing your conversation.   


Yuri scowls as you stare, somewhat mortified, back at a still-grinning Viktor. “Have you not heard of privacy, старик.”

“I brought you drinks,” he pouts in response, offering a bottle of water to Yuri which is swiftly swiped from his grasp by the blonde. Viktor passes you a warm cardboard cup which you accept gratefully, if only to hide behind the tendrils of steam and move swiftly on.

> _** 1 hour and 7 minutes to go ** _

“Are you ready?” you ask, pulling home a zip that runs the length of Yuri’s spine. Scarlet material pulls together, gold sequins glinting with every movement. He looks as regal as he does ethereal, his hair half up in intricate braids that offer him an elfish look. _  
_

“да,” he replies assuredly, turning on the spot and grabbing you by the waist, his grip steadfast. He holds your gaze with such a burning intensity that you almost look away out of natural instinct. Almost. “I’m going to win this.”

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper, without hesitation and without guilt, finger tips tracing over his cheekbone. You want to see him succeed but, above all, you want him to know how much you care.   


He exhales, as if releasing the pressure in his chest, shaking off the weight of plaguing doubts. In his mind, you know, failure at this point would be a fate worse than death. It is a fear you wish you could pluck from his skull and extinguish between two fingers like the flame of a candle, and yet it is what makes him.

“I couldn’t have done this without you.” He says this with an honest conviction sharp enough to pierce armour. “Your support. Your presence. Your--” The sentence trails off, hanging between you for a moment. 

You know exactly what he was about to say, realise that speaking it aloud for the first time wouldn’t be so bad, and so let the word drop from your own lips instead. “Love?”

Yuri nods, his grip on you tightening. "And I love you back," he says, the sentence punctuated with a kiss that feels like devotion. 

> _ **60 seconds to go** _

The announcements from commentators over a loud tannoy system sound a lot like gospel, their praises rich and their criticisms scalding. Camera operators soak up in the emotion of the kiss and tell as various scores flick up on screen, bathing in the drama. Various skaters come and go, their performances a dazzling blur, your attention both focused and distracted, until–

_“And it seems as if the crowd are indeed glad to see our next skater, Yuri Plisetsky of Russia. For his short program, he has chosen the theme_ Fate _, choreographed by Viktor Nikiforov.”_

Yuri lingers at the side of the rink for a moment, receiving a one-armed hug from Yuuri and a squeeze of the shoulder from Viktor. From where you’re sat, you can just make out Yuri’s schooled features, flicking blonde hair from his face as he glides smoothly into the centre of the arena. 

The crowd fall silent and, for a moment, all you can hear is your own nervous breathing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY I TAKE IT BACK I KNOW I SAID THE FIC MIGHT END HERE BUT I THOUGHT ABOUT IT SOME MORE AND I GUESS YOU'RE ALL IN FOR ANOTHER CHAPTER AT LEAST, stayed tuned
> 
> love from the world's most indecisive, un-planned writer


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “WHAT WILL YOU DO,  
> WHEN IT IS YOUR TURN IN THE FIELD WITH THE GOD?”  
> -LOUISE GLÜCK, EXCERPT OF “PERSEPHONE THE WANDERER"

He is a predator upon the ice, lithe and sleek and powerful, ruthlessly hunting down every turn and every leap. Metal strikes to make sharp sounds that you feel in your chest, the sporadic, near-deafening applause from the crowd rumbling in response like thunder. Your palms are hot as you watch, fingers gripping the edge of the plastic fold-down seat. This was a different person to the Yuri you’d seen skating upon a Russian pond, different even to the Yuri you had spoken to just over an hour ago. He had become something else, manifesting into a creature that thrived in the cold light of competition, conjuring elegant movement from that which was otherwise static and noise.

It ends almost as soon as it’s begun, time dissolving, and you realise that you could watch him forever. Around you the other spectators show their appreciation for Yuri. He remains paused and poised in the centre of the rink for a moment, hands raised above his head, a rain of flowers and gifts descending from the stands. You aren’t certain when the tears spilling over your lashes began, but you brush the wet droplets from your cheeks and find a sense of utter admiration settle in your ribcage.

He places second for his short program, barely a point behind first. You watch his perfectly calculated expression broadcast on the arena screen, something icy burning in the blue pixels of his eyes. He nods once at the verdict with a crooked smile and exits the kiss and cry beside a grinning Viktor and Yuuri.

You don’t see him again until gone midnight. You spot his fans before you spot him, a gaggle of excited Angels fluttering around their idol with phones in hand, striving to document evidence of standing in his presence. You watch from afar as he’s dragged into various photos, tired yet compliant, stopping only upon catching sight of you. The Angels remain for a moment after he bids them good bye, and then disperse whilst whispering excitedly at the images on their screens.

“Hi,” you say as he draws nearer, peering out from a fur-lined hood that tickles you cheeks when you move.  


“Hi,” he says back, stopping in front of you. He takes a moment to look at you before leaning in and placing a gentle kiss upon your lips that’s so soft it makes you shiver.

“How are you feeling?”

He shrugs. “Good. Exhausted. Yuuri was pleased with my performance.”  

“You were perfect,” you tell him.   


Yuri hums, but you can’t tell whether it’s in agreement or not. “I think you’ll prefer my freestyle tomorrow.” He shifts the gym bag on his shoulder before lopping an arm through your own, guiding you away from the ice rink and its glaring lights.

You don’t question his statement, allow him to dwell in the secrecy of his second performance. Instead, the two of you fall into comfortable silence, happy for even the slightest moments of peace. You’re reminded of being back in St Petersburg, all the pressure of the Winter Olympics merely a distant dream (along with any notion that you would ever find yourself so entwined in this boy’s life).

A yellow moon that isn’t quite full observes your movements as Yuri walks you through the winter sporting complex, pausing at a bench overlooking the terrain park lit up by silver floodlights. He sits down with a small yawn before pulling you close into his side.

Despite the time of night, flurries of people pass you by, voices often raised in high spirit. Some greet Yuri with nods of their head, others barely batting a lash in his direction. Sportsmanship and camaraderie rolls off of everyone in waves, however, determination written plainly across their faces.

“It’s another world,” you voice, drinking it all in.

Yuri stirs beside you. “It’s all I’ve ever known. All I can ever remember.”

You look at him curiously, pushing back his hair with one hand. “Even when you were a child?”

“да. My mother was a figure skater too. As soon as I could stand on land, I was taught how to stand on ice. While you were at school, I was training at Yakov’s bootcamp – all of it, all for this. Competitions feel like home to me, I’ve been doing them for so long.” He fiddles with one of the toggles on your coat whilst he speaks, as if requiring a distraction to reveal his own inner thoughts. “Sometimes I feel as though I missed out on living a normal life.”

You gently trap his hand in your own, fingers locking between his. “That works both ways. Most people only ever dream of your success, tiger.”

A smile slides across his mouth, pleased and edging on being endeared. “You’re very good at that.”

“At what?”   


“At making me feel better.”

It’s a statement that you’re undeniably pleased to hear. “I can think of a few other things that would also help,” you offer, voice honeyed and low.

His gaze snaps from the view to you, hovering between your eyes and your mouth. You catch a finger under his chin, drawing him to your lips, wanting nothing more than to remind him that you’re viciously in love with him. But the kiss is interrupted, a sense of distraction lingering on Yuri’s tongue.

“There’s someone watching us.” He speaks hushedly into your mouth, the arm around you tensing slightly.  


You settle back into the bench before glancing in the general direction of the onlooker. Sure enough, a silhouetted figure stands some way off, features hidden to shadow.

“We should go,” Yuri suggests, a hint of anger in his tone.   


“No,” you reply, getting to your feet. “It’s not fair, you don’t deserve to be gawped at. Stay here, I’ll remind them of the concept of privacy.”  


Yuri raises an eyebrow, folding his arms and reclining into the seat. “Didn’t you once gawp at me?”

You frown. “I wasn’t gawping, I was admiring from afar. I’d also like to point out that, if I hadn’t, we may never have met.”  


He thinks on this for a moment, before semi-reluctantly uttering, “True.”

You give him a fiercely defiant look. “Your privacy is mine now, so excuse me whilst I make that clear to this intruder.”

With a chuckle, Yuri offers you a salute. “Good luck котенок.”

Your footsteps are soft as you cross the small plaza, squaring your shoulders upon approaching the stranger. There is something near-cinematic to their presence, as if plucked from a film noir, their features cast in shadow and the smouldering end of a cigarette balanced between their lips. A black coat is draped over their slight frame, the material swallowing them. You notice the feminine curve of their cheekbones, mascara lining their lashes. Their somewhat passive stance and lack of attempt to leave puts you on edge but confirms their intention: they were here with a purpose.

“Can I help you?” you ask, chin raised as you stop a few paces in front of them. Your stubborn nature has never made confrontation much of an issue. “We couldn’t help but notice you watching us.”  


The stranger half-smiles. “Sorry. I just wanted to talk.” An accent similar to Yuri’s drips from their words, thick and heavy and accompanied by an exhale of smoke.

“If it’s an interview you want, I can find out when Yuri’s next press conference is.“  


They are quick to shake their head. “No, no. It is _you_ I want to speak with.”

“Oh.” You blink, their answer entirely unexpected. It takes a moment for you to respond further, doubt loitering in the forefront of your mind. “Do you mean an interview?”  


Strangely, they seems to mull this over. “Sort of.” They dig around in their pocket before proffering a piece of folded paper. “Please, meet me here in the morning. I will explain.” 

You take the small white rectangle, unfolding it to read the address of a cafe and the time, _9am_. 

“Come alone,” they add insistently.   


With a frown, you watch them swiftly turn on their heel and stride off, flicking the end of their cigarette onto the floor.

“What did they want?” Yuri asks moment later when you return to him.  


“Nothing,” you lie, the piece of paper hidden in your palm. “Just a reporter sniffing around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some of you may have noticed that i prematurely uploaded this chapter last night and then took it down moments later - the reason being a wave of inspiration in the form of lying in bed being unable to sleep. sometimes sleepless nights are the best. anyway, you know by now how much i love my cliff hangers and mystery, so voila ;)


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